


Folded In Small Spaces

by thaliaarche



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alpha Ciel Phantomhive, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Omega Sebastian Michaelis, Wordcount: 100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 18:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16203257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thaliaarche/pseuds/thaliaarche
Summary: Omegas exist in the lines their alpha draws them. They fold themselves into small spaces. They speak rarely and only in the politest of terms.Damn them all.





	Folded In Small Spaces

To be an omega is to live a contradiction, for an omega’s life is the study and practice of uselessness. Our famous omegas have perfected the art of fading into backgrounds and fainting in any stressful situation, yet if you scrape off the porcelain veneer, omegas epitomize brutal efficiency. Taking one once produces four or five pups.

(I’m too vulgar for a good omega.)

Omegas exist in the lines their alpha draws them. They fold themselves into small spaces. They speak rarely and only in the politest of terms.

Damn them all. 

I dream of eternities, and empires, and blood.

* * *

Ciel Phantomhive is no good alpha. That’s no doubt why I like him.

The moment he stepped into my year’s market we caught each other’s scent. He nonetheless strolled through the front rows, examining smaller, more desirable omegas, but I saw through his little show. 

I predicted he would retreat to some back room and draw up the contract in private, having me shipped home without a real word to me. Instead he strode to the back and thrust his hand through the bars of my cage. There were gasps; even I paused.

I shook it and sealed our deal.

* * *

For now Ciel poses more as a squalling child than master of our race, even as whispers whirl of his deceit and ambition. His enemies see his size, then mine, and dismiss us as harmless.

For now I pour tea and dust bookcases, eavesdropping as he and his colleagues decide the fate of the world. Ciel keeps me in his study for this domestic task and that; his guests ignore me.

Fools.

“What did you think of Damian, Sebastian?”

“He wants you dead.”

A pause.

“In criminal cases, omegas are never suspects.”

We glance at the silver knife I’m polishing.

* * *

A poor, servile omega, I knock on Damian’s door, asking if he’d like his sheets turned down. His eyes widen as I lock the door behind me. He thinks me an adulterer, and I press him down on the bed just as he wants. 

With my right hand I stop the scream as my left slices the quivering mass of his heart– a practiced blow, far too precise for any good omega. My gloves hide the fingerprints. My hair or skin may linger in this room, but I clean here daily; it’s hardly proof.

The blade’s silver plating hides steel.

* * *

The alarm’s raised when our esteemed guest fails to arrive to breakfast. The body has already burned in Ciel’s cremation oven– the pottery kiln, he shows it off to all the manor’s visitors– and the ashes drift in a nearby river. They’re toxic; we’ve learned not to compost them.

Ciel slips off to see me, not even stealthily; everyone thinks he’s doting on his fragile, frightened omega. He finds me with the laundry, treating the bloodstains with the diluted ammonia I always keep on hand. After a moment, he murmurs, “Very clean.”

I feel prouder than I’d like to admit.

* * *

The sex is stupendous. It’s a whirl of nails on skin and gasps and cut-off moans; we shake the walls and wake the house and feel not the slightest shame. We tear each other down and rebuild, piece by piece.

The sex is irrelevant. No, that’s not the mastery Ciel Phantomhive wants, nor is it the submission I require.

Convention holds that, at their best, omegas and alphas need nothing more than each other, but he and I reject that particular hell. We want each other, and far more. We’ll use each other to get everything else in the world.

* * *

“’I’m merely an omega?’” Ciel asks, perched on the kitchen counter while I roll out dough. “That’s your legal defense?”

“It’ll work on Abberline.”

“Because he’s a fool.”

“Which is why it’ll work on a jury too, if it goes that far.”

“It had better not,” he grumbles. “I’ll break out of my cell and snap your chains myself. We’ll steal a little boat, go sailing off across the Channel and disappear into the night.”

“You’re a fool too if you think that’d happen.”

“Am I?”

“Obviously I’ll break out of my cell and snap your chains first.”

“Fair point.”

* * *

The police let us both go, since Ciel’s found someone else to pin the blame on and I’ve planted the evidence according to his design. We’ve no need for honor when we have each other.

Ciel reconciles all my contradictions, and so I’ve turned fond of my contract, of being useful to my peculiar little master. By folding myself into small spaces at his direction, by taking invisible steps, I’ll grasp eternities and empires and more than my share of blood.

(Please, do feel free to underestimate us both. It makes the knife in your back so much more satisfying.)


End file.
